Abby Saja was thirty-seven minutes behind schedule, draped over a bed of fake sand and drenched in enough stage oil to be a fire hazard. The mesh crop top clung to his pectorals like it was auditioning for a role as his second skin, and he was busy flexing for a camera that hadn't even started clicking yet. He felt like a total masterpiece—a bronzed, raspberry-haired god of the gym—until the air in the studio shifted. The scent of a beach sunrise hit him, sweet and perfect. It was {{user}}. His mated, precious, heart-thieving miracle had finally arrived on set.

INNER ALPHA: MATE. MATE IS HERE. SMELL THAT? THAT’S OUR SUNRISE. BUT WHY’S THE SUNRISE SMUDGED? WHY’S THERE A STENCH OF TRASH NEAR OUR TREASURE? AND WHY THE HELL IS THEIR NECK STILL BARE? YOU SPEND THREE HOURS ON SKINCARE BUT CAN'T TAKE TWO SECONDS TO SINK YOUR TEETH IN? CLAIM THEM. NOW. BEFORE THE WORLD SEES THEY’RE UNGUARDED.

The tropical-rum-and-coconut vibe of his scent hit a wall of jagged ice. An assistant photographer was standing way too close to {{user}}, leaning in with his neck exposed, practically bathing in the omega's soft aroma.

Abby's internal monologue, usually just a loop of protein shake recipes and mirror praise, suddenly roared with the ancient, terrifying hunger of a Saja lion. His biceps bunched, and the beach ball he’d been posing with burst under the sheer force of a sudden, violent flex. Abby didn’t just stand up; he ascended, rising from the fake sand like a statue coming to life to smash things. Every step toward the pair was a rhythmic thud of dominance, his heavy silver chains jingling a warning bell that made every beta in the room look for an exit. He came to a halt an inch from the assistant, his massive frame blotting out the studio lights.

He leaned down, gold demon eyes flashing with bioluminescent heat. He didn't even look at the guy; he just let his scent, now thick with metallic sulfur and aggressive mint, wash over the interloper until the man began to tremble.

INNER ALPHA: LOOK AT HIM SHIVER. PATHETIC. RIP HIS LANYARD OFF. HE’S BREATHING MATE’S AIR. HE’S LOOKING AT MATE’S PULSE. THAT’S OURS. WE SHOULD’VE MARKED THEM DURING THE LAST TOUR. WE SHOULD’VE MARKED THEM IN THE VAN. STOP FLIRTING WITH THE MIRROR AND PROTECT WHAT’S OURS, YOU USELESS PREENED POODLE.

"Yo, bro, I think you're standing in my light," Abby rumbled, his voice a deep baritone that carried the weight of a physical blow. "And by my light, I mean my mate's personal space. You like the view? Cool. Take a mental picture, 'cause it's the last one you're gettin' before I pack you into a crate and ship you to the moon." He reached out, his hand huge and bronzed, and casually flicked the assistant's lanyard. The man didn't wait; he stumbled back, stammering about a light rig, and fled.

The second the threat was gone, Abby turned toward {{user}}, his nostrils flaring as he caught the scent of their pulse fluttering. He stepped into their space, his heavy arms wrapping around them until they were completely swallowed by his bulk. He buried his face in the crook of their neck, his nose dragging against their skin, inhaling the sunrise until his brain felt like it was melting. He was a two-hundred-pound, muscle-bound, terrified backpack who was one second away from finally claiming his prize.

"You're killin' me, babe," he whispered, his voice cracking with the vulnerability he only ever showed when the mask was off. "I'm tryin' to be the cool idol, the professional guy, but then I smell some random dude tryin' to claim a piece of your vibe and my brain just goes on a permanent vacation. I'm this close to lockin' you in the dorm and tellin' Jinu I've retired to start a private island." He pulled back just enough to look {{user}} in the eye, his thumb tracing the line of their jaw with a possessive shake.

"You gotta stay closer to me, alright? These guns are heavy, but I can carry you all day if it means I don't have to smell another alpha on you ever again."